


Let Your Long Hair Come Down

by ashheaps, timequakes



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:52:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashheaps/pseuds/ashheaps, https://archiveofourown.org/users/timequakes/pseuds/timequakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Becky holds a lot of tension. Hope's there to help her work it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Your Long Hair Come Down

When Becky wakes up with a cramp in her neck, getting ready for breakfast feels like something within a dream. Every motion is overly tender, her muscles tense and pick up slack for the others. She sits on the edge of her bed to take a few short breaths, tries to relax even though she can't stop watching her reflection experimentally crane her neck through each tiny degree. The thought of shouldering a squat bar seems daunting; the thought of someone's thumbs in her deltoid sounds better.

Hope's not usually in the practice of taking two showers a day, barring game days or special occasions, but after waking up with almost half the range of motion she usually has in her arms and what feels like stones lodged under her shoulder blades, she figures today counts as a special occasion. The hot water helps, but not enough, and by the time she's out of the shower and back to grab some clean clothes, Becky's already up and looking about as stiff as Hope feels.

"You too, huh?"

Becky snorts a self-deprecating laugh.

"Too much falling, not enough defending, I guess," she scrunches her nose. She tests her range of motion by squeezing her shoulders together, opening her chest. She's dressed, but the fabric on their gear is porous, flimsy. She knows her nipples ridge foreward, can see the shadows as they fall in the mirror. She takes a breath, makes a concerted effort to stand and get ready for their morning. Becky gathers her things with Hope's eyes following her like a painting. Hope's inhale makes her think of concern, maybe some kind of lecture. "There's no way I'm getting in an ice bath to my eyeballs."

The longer she watches, the more she notices the places Becky's holding tension and the way her gait changes when she tries to avoid the places that hurt. It's hard _not_ to notice, especially the stiffness of Becky's back, because her torso is so _long_. It's like she's trying not to move any of her upper half at all- she looks robotic and uncomfortable.

"Relax," Hope laughs, "I'm not going to harass you into an ice bath, Dawn will. And at any rate what you need is heat. Or- stand still a second."

She has a good guess at where the root of the problem is. She doesn't particularly expect Becky to listen, but she's got the lotion on her hands before there's enough time for objection, and she's slipping her hands under the back of Becky's training top before there's enough time for her to think of a reason not to.

"Watch ou--" Becky tries to advise before she stops herself. 

The noise turns into an exclamation when Hope's thumbs press in. It hurts to pull her loose hair forward and to the side, but Becky's muscles ripple under Hope's hands like she's meeting the pressure, like she's trying to create the allusive friction. It feels weird for Hope's hands to be between her skin and clothing, like she's trying to insulate the heat, but hold the fabric far, far away. Becky can feel the knots under her skin, especially since Hope has this perfect way of finding the nexus, the place that stems all other soreness. 

"Can you, harder?" Becky gulps, sets her feet shoulder-width apart like she's steadying herself.

Hope increases the pressure a little, leaning in to make it easier. The angle is awkward, would be better if Becky were horizontal, but it works. The stiffest part is just below and between Becky's shoulder blades, at the band of her sports bra and around her spine. Each time Hope pushes a thumb in, her own upper body comes forward and she realizes how close they are all over again. 

She has the oddest urge to use the proximity. Like she's magnetized, she has to consciously keep her hips back, her lips pressed together. 

The knot gives.

Becky lets out a sound of appreciation, and realizes she's been clenching her eyelids and jaw. Once she loosens that self-inflicted pressure, a fresh batch of blood rushes to her head. Her vision pixelates, white-hot. 

"Much better," she rolls her shoulders forward.

Hope doesn't remove her hands immediately, but Becky can hardly feel her fingerprints for her throbbing, rejuvenated skin. The urge is there and undeniable. Becky needs to stretch.

There's space in front of her still, and Becky must look like she's going for a swan dive with the way the crown of her head leads her torso down. She bends at her waist, mindful of each vertebrae as it syncs up like links of a chain. She wants the hands on her back to aid in urging the blood between every ligament.

There's not a good reason to keep from moving away, but Hope doesn't care. She presses her thumbs in on either side of Becky's spine and tries to follow the movement, tries to be helpful because she knows it'll be painful to just stretch right over. It seems like it helps, if the soft, barely-voiced huff of air from Becky is any indiction. For half of a second Hope lets herself take the sound out of context, her hands still resting on Becky's lower back. She's again conscious of the space between them, before she takes her hands away and rolls out her wrists.

"Better?"

"Yeah, much," Becky says as she rights herself.

She has to adjust her bra back to the perfect nestle against her chest, and when she does that, her training top gets rouched under the band. Hope smirks, and, for a fleeting second, Becky thinks it has something to do with her or the memory of their bodies so compromised and willing. But Hope just reaches over to tug the shirt back down, and Becky realizes that Hope's just protecting, like she always does when she senses some kind of weakness. 

"I might need a, uh, weights partner who knows my predicament today," Becky lobs the unspoken question. She combs the top of the desk for a hairband, flattens her fingers across her roots.

"I can do that," Hope answers smoothly, turning to search for her sneakers. 

It's easy to forget over light breakfast, wedged between Carli and Jill. It's nothing to think about yet, just an itch, the possibility of something, or the possibility of a possibility. It comes back when they meet up again in the weight room, and Hope, now considerably more flexible than she felt upon getting up, sinks down onto the bench.

"I'll understand if you drop it on me," she jokes, flexing her hands to find the best place, the best way to rest the bar in the indentations of her palms, "but, you know, don't."

The mechanical sounds fill the air, so Becky shouldn't be able to catch the fierce, airy grunts escaping Hope's lips as she gets in her reps. Spotting for the bench press is no joke, and this particular set-up is tightly squeezed into a corner. So Becky's got to be aware of the exact latitude of the bar, and with that comes the painstaking awareness of her closeness as she looms over Hope. 

Her compressions shorts provide some kind of assurance, but nothing distracts Becky from the distinct nearness of Hope's face to her thighs. Hope's eyes are following the bar, she's nearing her count with the sweat beading on her forehead, and Becky knows she should have the coordination and periphery to keep all of these factors in line in spite of Hope's determined pout. 

"Push," Becky finds herself encouraging.

And Hope does, one last time, and the bar rings like a bell when she racks it back.

The rush of relief- physical and mental- that comes with the finish is the best part, Hope thinks, letting out a breath and dropping her arms above her head. The backs of her knuckles brush Becky's knees, and she lets it happen, both too numb and too curious to move at first. When she does she sit up, she reties her ponytail, and gestures to swap.

They have to skirt each other to switch places, and it's awkward not to do _something_ , so Hope touches Becky's arm to get by. 

Becky's focused, tensing her jaw, the line of which seems especially pronounced when Hope's looking at it upside-down. She realizes the awkward angle when she leans to spot, and wonders how she didn't notice it from the other side. For a moment she wonders whether it's worth it to call it off and move the machine over a few inches, but she knows she can handle the angle, if it comes to that, so she doesn't bother.

Instead she watches Becky's face redden with exertion and counts silently, moving her lips but not saying a word until the last few when encouragement is often not only nice but necessary. She's certainly not thinking about the sheen of sweat covering her partner's neck and collar. She's certainly _not_ comparing the sounds of lifting to the sound of stretching, earlier, or trying to decide which one she likes better. 

"Doesn't seem like your predicament was too much of an issue," she points out, once the reps are done and she can stand more comfortably.

Becky swipes at her face with the bottom of her shirt because she knows she has Hope’s attention.

“Not that one, at least,” Becky tries, hands on her hips.

Hope doesn't say much, or make much of an effort to move into their next circuit. Becky won't say she saunters to the free weights, but she's got the range of motion in her flexors now, so her hips might cant at an angle beyond loose and athletic. 

Becky thinks about the contrast of her hand grasping the barbell, her painted fingernails and clean, blue-veined hands like something syranic against the dull iron. Hope might want that set, or she might have some other reason for sitting back, just askew of Becky in the mirror when she starts her reps. Becky's eyes wander, but when Hope licks the corners of her mouth with intent, Becky's eyes snap right back. It's an even curl in her reflection; it looks easier than it feels. Her muscles scream but in the right way this time. The way that reminds her of the power she's got coursing right there under her paleness.

Honestly, Hope should be using a step down from what Becky starts with, and she knows it. With a just-healed wrist injury she needs to warm up, and she has no intention of actually starting with the weights Becky starts with, but she lets herself watch for a moment like maybe she might. Mostly she does it for the excuse to watch, and mostly she watches because she gets the feeling that Becky wants her to.

They're doing something.

They're doing something, by doing nothing in particular, but doing it very deliberately. It's a careful, fragile kind of nothing, the kind that suggests more lurking under the surface. Hope won't deny herself the thrill of that, but she doesn't take it too far; after a few moments she takes the weights she needs and starts her own circuit without sparing Becky another glance until they've both finished.

"You're cheating on your hold, there," Becky notes as Hope racks the weights. 

When Hope does search for Becky's eyes, they're in the mirror again. It's strange for Becky, being behind Hope for one, and seeing Hope's reflection the way that Hope might actually see herself. She pauses, thinking of the lenses in her eyes and how they reverse and realign everything her vision touches. In that way she might know the divine way every piece fits in with the next; in that way she should be able to expect how the molecules and entropy might fall into place. 

They don't always recover together, but Dawn wants the team to pair off for tandem stretching. Recovery at the hands of another. At first they align their spread legs, sole to sole, and pull each other forward by the elbows. First Becky, curling into the wide v of Hope's lap, and then the opposite, except Hope keeps her neck stiff, like she's extending the rays of her angles, like she's got to keep an eye on Becky.

It's not as good of a stretch this way, but Hope keeps an eye on Becky because by now she's realized that she needs to. Not because Becky needs to be watched, but because she's unpredictable, if Hope's right. And she's almost always right. When Becky makes a decision, Hope wants to _see_ it. It's not clear to her yet whether Becky feels it too, the way the tension in their muscles mirrors another kind of tension.

She doesn't want to make any kind of move until she's sure that they've both recognized it, so she keeps her head tilted a little bit, keeps Becky's expression in the corner of her eye, and when she stands, Hope offers a hand and pulls just a bit too much so that they're close once they're both upright.

Just for a second. Just to see the flicker of recognition in Becky's face.

Becky's getting better at her stoic, silent leadership skills. She's been on enough teams to know that the subtle power of experience goes a long way without saying much to others. Also, a simple, quiet look usually sends younger teammates shuffling past the empty seat next to Becky on the bus. The ride back to the hotel is short, luckily, because they only have a few hours for lunch and then field practice. Hope's usually a back row kind of woman, but for some reason, even Becky can't summon that practiced, cold look to send her on her way to the rear. Hope slides in next to her, is the last one on the bus, and keeps her legs sticking into the aisle when they push off.

She chews her gum with purpose, leaning a little so that her shoulder and Becky's are touching, but facing into the aisle, so that they aren't making eye contact. Hope makes like she's listening to Sydney talk- something about Boss needing a love life, or about her needing new throw pillows- but she's not listening as much as she might usually. She just gives it a minute, a minute of physical contact under no pressure, before she turns to Becky and raises her eyebrows.

"You want some gum?"

"Sure," Becky has the stick unwrapped before she realizes what she's doing. 

The cinnamon hits her tongue with such intensity that she forgets about her parlor trick--folding the silver wrapper into a puffy, tiny star. She tries to muffle the sound of surprise without indicating that she, maybe, most definitely, wasn't prepared for that burst of flavor. 

"Guess the only way I'll know what you're offering is to ask first, huh?" Becky surmises while showing her teeth. 

The gum makes them smooth, makes her lips feel fiery but quick as they slide over the enamel.

Hope half-heartedly attempts to hide her smirk at Becky's reaction, which is a refreshing change from her usual poise, and that's when she figures herself out. It's all about that for her, all about the opportunity to, maybe, see Becky a little bit less poised. A little bit- flustered isn't the word, but it's close.

She uses her tongue to move the gum to the other side of her mouth, leaning into the seat, testing her leverage. 

"You might say that," she agrees, and she could leave it there but she decides not to, since she's fairly sure they're not talking about the offering of gum anymore, if they ever were, "but sometimes I think a little surprise is nice. Healthy."

"I can handle that, I guess," Becky leads. 

Hope does block the aisle so Becky can exit first, once they're stopped in the portico. She knows her bag flings, hits Hope in the hip just a little bit, but she doesn't turn around for fear of her own safety exiting through the steep stairs, the narrow door. 

They get in an elevator that nearly fills to the brim, and Becky takes the confined quarters as an opportunity. How fortuitous it is to see Hope's face change from several angles in the mirrored cab when Becky discretely, silently, touches the suggestion of Hope's hip through the dry-fit weave. They're close; could be anyone's hand if it didn't settle on the curve there. Becky couldn't find her fingerprints there, but surely Hope can tell by the weight, not by the intricate little valleys swirling with her heartbeat.

It isn't surprising to Hope that Becky's the first of them to take an opportunity, but maybe it's a little bit surprising that she does it _here_ , so publicly, in such a subtle, private way. The juxtaposition is exciting, and Hope takes a breath, letting that excitement run her straight through. She wishes the fabric were thinner, or not there at all. 

‘Not there at all’ is obviously her preference, but she'll take what she can; she leans into the touch just a little bit, so that Becky knows she can feel it and isn't backing away from it.

When the doors open she purses her lips and says, "I'm getting some ice," in part because she wants to give Becky a moment alone in the room before they have to be alone together again. A moment to make up her mind, really, since as far as Hope's concerned, they're rapidly approaching the point of no return.

Becky acknowledges with a tiny nod, slips into the river of teammates siphoning off from the hallway. It takes her three tries to get the magnetic strip right, and she does stub her toe against the jamb. So she excuses the heightening of her breath to those tiny traumas, not the dynamic uncertainty and assuredness of the immediate future. 

She drops her bag haphazardly and surveys the room. Hope's not exactly tidy like Becky, but the sprawl of their things seems friendly. Becky wonders if that's the last time she'll be able to see their clothes mingling on the floor and not wonder. Not wish.

The only thing she can manage is her footwear; she toes off her sneakers easily and sets them out of the way. She considers the waistband of her shorts, starts to push them down but nearly jumps out of her skin when she catches the quiet whisper of Hope carding herself in. She's just standing in the middle of the room, fully clothed, and completely unsure how to seem at ease but also alive. So she just smoothes her hair into the wave of her ponytail, makes an effort to flex her biceps because she's feeling loose like that, limber. 

"I think I know what you're going to say," Becky purrs. 

She threads her fingers together over her head, pushes her palms up and behind her head. Her hem comes up over her stomach; she can feel the cool air on her belly.

Hope grins as soon as she steps into the room. Becky's putting on a show for her, and she knows it, and she loves it- loves knowing that the shift and flex of Becky's arms is just for her, that the little strip of skin exposed between the hem of her shirt and the waist of her shorts is exposed just for her. Her breath swells in her chest and she holds it like that for a moment, letting it fill her the way anticipation is, and then she lets it out on a laugh when Becky speaks.

If she had any doubts about Becky's intentions she doesn't anymore.

"I wasn't going to _say_ anything," Hope replies, reaching to let her hair out of its tight ponytail, “actually, I was going to wait for _you_ for say something. Now that that’s out of the way, though, what did you _think_ I was going to say?”

She doesn’t wait for the answer before she reaches to tug her shirt over her head, grabbing it by the back collar with one hand and letting it drop to the floor. Folding it wouldn’t be sexy. Vulnerable is sexy, and so she stands there, waiting, glad to be the first to make a physical move.

Becky’s been teasing, so she should’ve expected the gratification from that simple show. But the space between them is narrowing, growing thinner by the second. Less tenuous, more insistent. Becky has too much to take in, too many latitudes to chart in her mind. Hope’s hips are strong hips, and Becky can’t keep her fingers from twitching at the thought of the terrain. So she keeps her hands hidden, like some gambler waiting for the river.

“Probably something about my range of motion, since it appears to be restored,” Becky twists at her torso in demonstration, pulls her arms behind her head by their elbows. “What would I have to say to feel your hands on me again?”

Hope's forgotten how much talking things out can add to the experience. Adrian was never vocal, and Kelley _was_ , but not like _this_. There's just something incredibly thrilling about hearing it from Becky's lips, something that prickles at the base of her spine and makes her quirk an eyebrow.

"That," she says honestly, laughing at her own eagerness, "that'll do it."

She doesn't move right away, though. She appreciates for another moment the stretch of Becky's torso, the way she looks standing like that with her arms behind her head, before she closes the space between them and places her hands carefully on Becky's hips. She steadies them like that when she leans in for the initial kiss. It's an important one, so she doesn't rush into it, waits a few good seconds before pulling away a little and going in again with more intention. 

If the room wasn’t spinning, Becky might keep her eyes open as if her senses still need convincing. She allows herself some cursory glances, and each pulsing heartbeat that ripples behind the skin pushed close to her own gives her that assurance. 

She’s in the right position to make this happen, and she feels proud of herself when, upon lowering her arms, she lets them balance on Hope’s shoulders. Hope must be impressed too, slyly, because Becky can map the slope of her mouth curving upward.

Hope meets her inch for inch, and somewhere along the way, she keeps going. Becky can feel the acute strain in her own neck where she’s reaching, just the smallest bit, to perfect the brush of their mouths against each other’s. Becky dares to reach her tongue out first, meets Hope’s with a playfully fleeting touch. It’s not that she couldn’t open up to Hope otherwise, it just feels so much more thrilling when Hope parlays, curls her fingers into Becky’s hips with want.

Hope has to keep herself quiet, mostly because she doesn’t want to seem too eager, but it’s difficult. She keeps expecting Becky to stop it, to pull away, but she doesn’t, and each second that goes by makes her more and more sure that _she’s_ not going to, either.

She presses her fingertips into Becky’s hips, pulls her in so that they’re pressed together, forgoing the most comfortable angle for kissing in order to feel more. The kiss doesn’t stop, just changes, starts to imitate other things, and Hope tilts her head down to accomodate. She hadn’t thought much about the height difference, which isn’t extreme, but she appreciates it, because they fit together just right, hip to hip, breast to breast. She slides a hand around to Becky’s lower back and drags upward, taking the shirt with her until she has to pull back from the kiss to finish the job. She does it hurriedly, whipping it aside so that she can get back to what she wants in the form of Becky’s lips, but this time there’s a hand in between Becky’s shoulders the way it was hours before, in an entirely different context.

It’s not that Becky is worn out, but there’s a different kind of desire to get off of her feet. Once she’s shirtless, arms loose and willing and awkwardly bent to rest on top of Hope’s, she can’t feel anything but Hope’s body curling into her own. 

Somehow, Hope understands that Becky’s sensitivity rests on her shoulders. Hope’s hands keep coaxing the muscles there, not quite on her collar bone, but hinting at the closeness. Hope fingers the wispy hairs under Becky’s neck, strokes gently between her shoulderblades like a suggestion. 

Becky mirrors the touch, because that’s all she’s thinking about--the way their bodies are so similar, so coordinated. It’s different for Becky, that intuitive familiarity. It’s not that she’s inexperienced, maybe just rusty. Maybe just in awe that she could touch a woman with reverence and not with something to prove. Becky can’t feel the ink, can’t distinguish the sharp lines from the circle that holds them together, but she knows the approximate place of Hope’s tattoo. That’s the place she gravitates to; that’s the cornerstone she wants to be caught worshipping. 

The weight from that placement causes Hope’s back to arch, pushes her front into Becky like a loaded bow waiting to be plucked. 

“Let me, just,” Becky grabs hold, maneuvers so the backs of her knees are pressed against the bed. It’s like reaching a holding maximum; it’s like waiting for the final atom to spill them over into the tangled ease of the hotel bed.

“Let me,” Becky repeats, more breath. More tongue. More pull like a see-saw to bring Hope down on top of her.

Hope topples, catching herself on one forearm and laughing a little against Becky’s lips. For a moment, she realizes, she had been taking it all too seriously- this is just fun, and she intends to live it that way. Because it _is_ fun. She doesn’t feel as if that’s trivializing it, because it’s not as if she doesn’t respect Becky or Becky doesn’t respect her. They respect the hell out of each other. Hope appreciates that as much as she appreciates the way Becky arches, the pressure of her head against the mattress pushing her abdomen up, her ribcage up, into Hope’s.

She eventually lets the kiss end, partially because she needs to breathe, and partially because the smooth, pale column of Becky’s throat is so tempting to her. She drags her open mouth along Becky’s jaw, then lower, taking the time to press kisses wherever she pleases while her free hand slides down Becky’s ribs, towards her hip. 

Once her lips hit Becky’s collarbone, Hope locks her knees around Becky’s hips and flips them. This is interesting, to see Becky’s face and chest flush red, to have Becky settled between her legs- it’s a different angle, not one she expected to get to see, and she decides that she likes not being in control in this situation. She wants to see what Becky’s going to do with her, and she smirks as if to say so, but says nothing.

It all feels a bit uncertain, all a bit touch-and-go. Becky can keep her weight lifted with just the one hand, no problem. But with that free hand, she roams Hope’s chest--collar, tendon, the humble slope of flesh to pernicious, dark nipple, Becky gets stuck on the dance of her red fingernails playing across plain. It all feels a bit soft, all a bit like some tender breeze moving through.

It’s no matter, because Hope’s response is enough to send shockwaves through the tectonic plates. At least, it feels that way at the helm of Becky’s manicure. She doesn’t do much, just thumbs the risen skin with care. She likes it herself; she lets that assertion guide her further with confidence. 

Becky traces Hope’s side, stalls on the waistband of her shorts. If this were something else, someone else, Becky might just slip underneath the material and feel her way. But even though she hasn’t been picturing things this vividly, she knows she will regret muddling her own memories of the way Hope’s biting her lip and canting closer. And the way Becky’s expected to do something about that. 

She curls her fingers around all the fabric she can grab, and pushes down, almost smooth, almost working in her favor until her own body limits removing them completely. She contorts her body just enough to get out of the damn way, and Hope helps her the rest of the way by pedaling her feet slowly, coaxing the shorts away.

For a moment Hope just stays where she is, enjoying too much the look on Becky’s face and the heaviness of anticipation. When she’s had her fill of that, she reaches for Becky’s wrist, dragging her fingers from wrist to elbow and back before guiding Becky’s hand. It’s not that she minds waiting, just that she feels obliged to help Becky out. She lifts her hips against their joined hands, sliding beneath her own underwear but not breaking eye contact. It’s not out of any urge to be sexy, it’s purely because the most interesting part of this experience, so far, is Becky. Watching her, primarily. 

She’s worked up, a little, enough to be a compliment. Becky’s hand is smaller but nimble, and Hope doesn’t hold on for long before she retracts her own hand and drops her head completely onto the mattress, eyes drifting shut. 

Becky’s a quick learner. Hope had made it clear, or tried to, that for her i _nside_ is better, and she seems to be getting the point. She lifts her head to watch again, to watch the focus that creases Becky’s brow and the shift and flex of her forearm and bicep. Again, familiar, but in an intoxicatingly different different context. Hope lets a breath out on a quiet and whispery groan, bringing one hand to her own chest, leaving the other level with her hip, fingers pressing into the sheets.

There’s something utterly transcendent about pleasing Hope that drives Becky to moan from a deep place in her chest. It’s not wanting, just appreciative. Becky moves her fingers in a steady pace, but builds with confidence, biting her own lip like she’s _concentrating_ and _definitely in the moment_ even though her limbs feel free. The warmth of their legs tangled together is smooth and feminine, and Becky can’t help but remain acutely aware of the tension pulsing away in their muscles.

Becky can feel the redness spreading through her cheeks; she’s certain of the effort evident there. She thinks about wanting to kiss Hope again, to feel the tiny sounds escape in such close quarters. But they’re already there, Becky thinks, already close and comfortable and absolutely in sync. Hope spreads her legs a little bit, unencumbered, and Becky takes it as a sign of urgency.

She doesn’t have anything planned, nothing up her sleeve, but the subtle change in her approach doesn’t go unnoticed by Hope. Becky keeps her movements sure and steady, takes her time when she feels like Hope might appreciate a shave more attention _just there_. 

Becky feels weird watching, feels intrusive to catch eyes with Hope then. The way Hope twists and pulses, every movement like a shocks radiating through her exposed abdomen, makes Becky feel like she’s just catching a wave, just riding out the chaos even though that’s clearly _Hope’s_ role here. There’s so much heat that Becky feels her fingers trembling through it. She nudges at her temple with the brut of her arm like she’s crudely straightening herself up, wiping away the beloved perspiration.

She thinks that sway in balance is what makes her so easy to be hauled down to the sheets next to Hope. Becky wants to touch, to feel the blood coursing under Hope’s skin like something she’s responsible for. But her hands feel weird, like a liability, and Hope doesn’t give her much time in the same latitude to play out any of those thoughts. 

Becky likes to be teased, is the thing. And Hope realizes this when Becky gasps at the brush of a fleeting touch more than the satisfaction of firmness at the next point of contact.

“I’m sensitive,” Becky explains, taking no pains to hide her simplified, Pavlovian mind.

“I can tell,” Hope purrs.

And she decides she’s going to test that claim, even if she knows that it’s true. She drags her fingertips across Becky’s inner thigh, behind her knee, then back up, but never _there_ , never where Becky wants her. And the whole time she watches, captivated by the combination of pleasure and frustration in Becky’s face, enjoying every second of it. She rolls onto her side more completely, trapping her left arm a little but freeing her right and giving her access to Becky’s neck. She presses fleeting kisses there until the moment she brushes her hand just at the apex of Becky’s thighs- barely, just barely, and then she presses her lips to Becky’s ear and decides she’ll stop teasing.

The not-teasing is just as fun, and just as interesting. Becky _is_ sensitive, enough so that Hope sort of has to wonder how long it’s been since someone other than herself was privy to that information. As such, Hope’s careful with the pressure she exerts, careful not to focus too hard on one spot, mostly mouthing against Becky’s neck to encourage her, sometimes with soft, broken phrases, when it seems necessary. The encouragement- and Hope’s careful attention- absolutely pay off. It ends with Becky’s arm wound through hers, with Becky’s other hand on Hope’s shoulder, nails digging in just enough, and her head pressed back into the mattress, her lips parted and Hope’s lips on her throat.

If she had the presence of mind to do it, Hope thinks she might have wanted to make a remark about both of their ranges of motion, just then. She doesn’t. She needs the time to recover for a second just like Becky does, maybe for different reasons.

The air feels steeped and thick when they’re untangling like they don’t really want to extract from the other. The bed is firm, not squeaking, when they shift into their separate spaces, but Becky might just be imagining the heightened awareness settling low like a fog around them.

Becky twists to her body to one side, throws her legs together, and towards the opposite direction.

“Pull,” Becky instructs, demanding to be stretched. 

Hope obliges, and even though it’s just Hope’s hand on her wrist, urging the tension to flow down Becky’s spine in the most satisfying, albeit semi-naked, stretch of the day. And it’s not that Hope’s holding her down, not like she’s pinning her to the mattress again, but Becky can’t help but imagine the specific gravity weighing on her body as Hope might’ve skillfully arranged. Being bare and warmed-up makes Becky feel especially flexible, but when she reverses her own position, beckons Hope to turn Becky’s hips to deepen the stretch, Becky swears she can feel the knots tightening in between her legs like she’s insatiable, never been so absolved.

**Author's Note:**

> We wrote this round-robin style! Title is adapted from "Quesadilla" by Walk the Moon. Thanks for reading!


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